Pole Dancing With Integrity
by MauMauKa
Summary: Looking for her husband in a sleazy bar, Miranda gets the shock of her life.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Hello everyone! It's been a long time since my muse has produced a Mirandy story, so I'm pleased to be working on this one! It's A/U, of course-Miranda and Stephen are not yet divorced—and will probably be shorter than my last one. This is FEMMESLASH, so if that's not your thing, read something else. Feedback is always welcome, but no flames please. **_

**Pole Dancing With Integrity**

Miranda Priestly hung up the phone with a trembling hand. Stephen was drunk again—too drunk to drive home. She could hear loud music, hooting and yelling in the background wherever he was, and her suggestion that he take a taxi had been met with, "Don't wait up… love ya, babe."

It was proof of just how shitfaced he was. There was no love left in their marriage, only grim determination not to deprive Caroline and Cassidy of another father on her part and a bottle of scotch on his. Miranda's lips pursed tightly as she punched in Roy's number. When her driver answered, she told him to be there in ten minutes.

The GPS function on her phone showed her that Stephen was at an unknown address in a part of the city Miranda never went to. The editor cursed softly as she threw on a black trench coat and slipped a blonde wig over her silver hair. Wherever her husband was, she was sure that it would never do for Miranda Priestly, fashion goddess, to be seen there.

When Roy arrived, he shook his head as Miranda gave him the address. "Are you sure you wanna go there, Ms. Priestley? That ain't a nice place."

"That's why you'll be accompanying me."

"Who's gonna watch the car if I do?"

Miranda stared at him, about to let fly with a blistering retort, when she realized he was right. It was _Runway_'s car, not hers, and Roy would be blamed if anything happened to it. Roy was the most discreet driver Miranda had ever hired and she wanted to keep him.

"I'll park close" Roy said, reading her mind. "And I'll watch you go in. If anything seems hinky, call and I'll come running."

Miranda nodded and they glided off into the night. Roy drove through and then out of Manhattan. After about twenty minutes he pulled up in front of what was unmistakably a strip club. Miranda got out without saying a word, grateful for the wig, the flat shoes she had changed into, and the fact that the coat was one of Stephen's and covered her down to her ankles. The fat troll watching the door let her through as soon as she shoved a fifty into his face. "Ya wanna job honey?" he chortled in a phlegmy voice. Miranda ignored him.

The club was dark and reeked of cigarettes and booze. Behind her Chanel smoked glasses Miranda squinted and scanned the room for her husband. It didn't take her long to spot him. Stephen was leaning one elbow on the stage where a stripper with long red hair and a hugely inflated bust rolled on the floor. The girl flipped her legs behind her head and wiggled her tongue between her ass cheeks. _How lovely_, Miranda thought with a disgusted wince. As she made her way closer, she noted that the girl was rolling on pile of green bills. _Wonderful_, she thought as Stephen added a ten to the pile. _Just perfect._

"Excuse me" Miranda said coldly to the people at Stephen's table. None of them were familiar to her. Like her husband, they all looked like professional types and all had loose neckties and red faces. Stephen's head turned at the sound of her voice and he gave her a wide, unpleasant grin. "Hey baby! Decided to come slumming?"

"You need to be home" Miranda said.

The men at the table hooted and meowed. Stephen laughed too. "No I don't" he said. "You don't need _me_ for anything. You have your little magazine and your little dresses and your little shoes." He belched loudly and turned back to the stage with his buddies. Miranda stood still, too incensed to form a coherent response and wondering if she should call Roy in to drag him out.

The redhead jumped to her feet as the lights went up and the music stopped. She began gathering up the scattered fives, tens, and twenties around her as a disembodied voice boomed, _"Give it up for CRIMSON everybody! And now, the Satin Lounge proudly presents the lovely Miss INTEGRITY!"_

Even in the midst of her rage, Miranda wondered what kind of stripper would choose a stupid name like "Integrity". The lights dimmed and the noise grew deafening as the men went wild. Lady Gaga's "Pokerface" blared from the ceiling speakers and the spotlights over the stage came up to reveal a shapely brunette with large, dark eyes.

_Familiar_ large, dark eyes.

It took every bit of self-discipline Miranda could summon up to keep her mouth from dropping open as Andrea leapt into the air and wrapped her thighs around the metal pole that sprouted from the middle of the stage. She spun around it twice then strutted to the edge of the stage, pulling off the top of her black bikini as she did and tossing it into the crowd. The men roared their approval and Andrea tipped them a wink, a shy smile curving her full red lips.

She was beyond beautiful. Feeling dazed, Miranda noted that the girl was still light and slim_, _and that she had one of the prettiest upper bodies a woman could have: a whole handful, yet firm and proud. And her own; Miranda was sure of it. Andrea strutted and leaped and spun, every move fluid and precise.

Stephen whistled loudly and waved a twenty-dollar bill in the air. When the song ended, Andrea sauntered over and he tucked it into the edge of her black thong. Stephen pointed at Miranda. "How about a lap dance for my darling wife? She might learn something from you."

Andrea cocked her head at him and pursed her lips, drawing several obscene suggestions from the other men. Finally, she shook her head. "Fifty for that, big boy. I take special care of my ladies."

Stephen guffawed and handed her another twenty and one of the other men produced a ten. Andrea bent over and tucked the money into a band she wore around her ankle, flashing the other side of the club a view of her luscious, round bottom. As she straightened up, Andrea's chocolate eyes locked with Miranda's icy blues.

The girl froze. Blinking in shock, she turned back to Stephen and pulled out the money he'd handed her. "On second thought, I don't think she'd enjoy it". She tried to give the bills back, but Stephen but he waved her away and plunked his whole wallet on the stage. "I know she wouldn't. Do it anyway. _Now."_

Miranda found herself being grabbed by rough hands and shoved forcefully onto a metal chair. Miranda held her head high, refusing to be intimidated.

Andrea stared at Stephen for a moment, her eyes gone black with fury. Then she smirked. "Actually stud, I think _you_ need a lesson on how a woman likes to be treated."

She slipped off the stage and made her way to Miranda's chair, her dark gaze never leaving the editor's face. Gracefully, she straddled the older woman's lap and leaned forward, _"Play along"_ she whispered as her lips brushed across Miranda's cheek to blow soft, warm breath into her ear.

Miranda couldn't stop the shiver that moved down her neck and then down her spine, or the sudden flare of heat low in her belly. How often, in Andrea's _Runway_ days, had she caught herself imagining scenarios like this? At the time she had been mortified and disgusted with herself. Miranda Priestly was many things, but a dirty old woman wasn't one of them. Now here she was, in a sleazy dive with her utterly gorgeous ex-assistant sitting on her lap, planting kisses all over her face. Half of her hoped the whole thing was a dream and the other half was praying that it wasn't.

"You see, a woman likes to be _cherished_" Andrea purred as she caressed Miranda's neck, careful not to touch the blonde wig. "Especially if she has spend every day being Superwoman and nobody ever thanks her for it. Especially…" Andrea tugged Miranda gently forward, removing her glasses so the older woman's face was buried in her cleavage. "…if she comes home to an empty house every night because her husband is spending his time in a dump like this."

Miranda gasped against the girl's skin as a long fingernail teased the back of her neck. "Especially" Andrea finished sadly, "When so many people betray her."

The older woman couldn't stop herself from pressing a kiss against Andrea's warm, silky skin. The girl trembled and lifted Miranda's chin so she could kiss her forehead and her eyelids "You can't touch me", she whispered. "Against club rules. Keep your hands in your lap."

One of the men laughed. "That must be why they call you Integrity, huh? You always give these little sermons along with your lap dances?"

Andrea grinned and blew him a kiss. "Only if I think you need it."

The man grinned and placed another ten on the table. The dance ended and Andrea replaced Miranda's glasses. She was about to slide from the editor's lap when Miranda locked her hands around the girl's waist. The table howled and more bills fluttered onto its sticky surface. Andrea smiled wryly and shrugged as she bent over Miranda again. "Easy, girlfriend! Hands down, remember?"

"_What are you doing here?" _Miranda hissed in Andrea's ear as a delicate tongue traced her neck, setting off even more heat and shivers.

"Working" Andrea whispered back. "Gotta pay the rent. Mmm…you smell good."

"As a _stripper?_"

Andrea shrugged again. "Money is money. Now that Nate's gone I have to make the rent on my own and since you put me on the blacklist, I haven't been able to do much in the way of writing." She had dropped her head so that her hair covered Miranda's face, effectively hiding their conversation.

Guilt was a rare emotion for Miranda. She never unleashed her full wrath unless she thought her target had truly earned it and Andrea had, abandoning her in the middle of Fashion Week like that. _None _of her assistants had ever done such a thing, if only because they didn't want to miss out on the celebrity parties and free clothes. Andrea managed to quit before Miranda could fire her, so Miranda took fierce pleasure in making sure no major publication would ever want anything to do with Andrea Sachs. She had never given a thought to what might happen next; she had just assumed that the girl would return to Dogpatch or wherever the hell she was from.

"I wasn't about to let you ruin New York for me" Andrea went on, turning around so that the editor got a close-up look at her glorious, gyrating hips. "I love it here and I'm going to stay. Even if it means never selling anything I write. Even if it means I have to do this for a while."

_Integrity, indeed._ "When do you get off?" Miranda asked.

Andrea looked over her shoulder and ran a small, pink tongue over her glossy lips. "Whenever I want."

"Baby, I think I love you!" groaned one of the men at the table, flinging a twenty down.

"I _mean_" Miranda hissed when Andrea turned back around. "When does your shift end? We need to talk. I'll pay a month's rent, if you like."

"We can talk, but I'm not taking your money." Andrea rose and began stuffing the cash into her g-string. "I'll meet you at Black Hannah's tomorrow for lunch."


	2. Chapter 2

Andrea was three minutes late.

Miranda frowned and looked at the Cartier watch on her wrist as the girl bounced through the door of the trendy bistro. She was greeted with a knowing laugh and a kiss on the cheek by the be-pierced gothic horror acting as the place's hostess. They exchanged pleasantries while Miranda tapped her foot. Andrea knew very well that Miranda hated to be kept waiting.

"Sorry about that" the girl slid into the booth opposite Miranda. "Hannah hasn't been working this week and I wanted to say hi."

"Somone you know from 'work'?" the editor asked in her driest tone.

"Yup. Owns this place, partly owns Satin, and still dances on occasion. We're good friends." Andrea smiled but her eyes dared Miranda to make any comment.

_Well, it's not like there's no money to be had in the sex trade_, Miranda thought as she arranged her napkin on her lap. The bistro was being touted in the _Times _as a hot, hip new place for the young arts crowd. Paintings in the various stages of awful adorned the walls, but the food was supposed to be top notch.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Andrea asked as she picked up the menu. "If you're thinking that I'm gonna go running to the tabloids with the news that the famous Miranda Priestly is a strip club patron, you can quit worrying. Your life has nothing to do with mine."

"That's not true, Andrea."

The brunette shrugged. "Sure it is. 'As far as anyone in the publishing world is concerned, there IS no Andrea Sachs'. That's a quote Miranda, straight from the hallowed mouth of _New York _magazine. One of their editors was nice enough to explain the kibosh. The rest just sent me the usual 'does not meet our current needs'. Not

that I wasn't expecting it. After all, I ran off in the middle of Fashion Week, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

A waitress with purplish-black hair and black lipstick approached for their orders. Without missing a beat, Andrea said "Chicken caesar and a diet coke with garlic bread. Separate checks, please."

Miranda ordered the same, minus the garlic bread and soda. When the waitress had gone Andrea shook her head. "I know it sucked when I did that. I'm sorry."

"Then _why_ did you do it? Was it Nigel?"

"Because of what _you did_ to Nigel, you mean? Partly. But the other part was that I didn't want to end up like you, having to betray a friend to keep my career. I got to know you pretty well while I worked for you, Miranda. I knew that you cared about him, but you cared about _Runway _even more. That's sad. I never wanted to be that sad. So I threw my phone into the fountain and walked away."

"Once I got home, I had to figure out what to do with my life." Andrea continued. "Nate and had broken up before I even went to Paris, the rent was due and there was no way I could cover it by myself without money. Waiting tables didn't cut it. My best option was to enroll at NYU, but that takes money too. So, the Satin Lounge."

"Could you not have moved into a less expensive place?"

"I could. But I didn't fancy living in a loft with five other girls. Believe it or not, a little nudity at work is worth being able to have my privacy at home."

Miranda shook her head slowly. "Andrea, I find it hard to believe a girl of your talents and gifts wouldn't be able to find _something _a little more respectable."

"Miranda, you once lectured me for ten minutes on how the fashion industry was repsonsible for every stitch of clothing I put on my back. While I can hardly make such a claim for the stripping industry, I CAN tell you that the only difference between what I do and what a supermodel does is money."

"I think there are a _few _differences. Most supermodels aren't hookers."

"Most strippers aren't, either!" Andrea rolled her eyes. "Come to Satin and I'll take you backstage. Ecstasy is getting her Master's in English Lit. at Columbia. Crimson is a mom with three kids and she sells Avon. Mystic's a real dancer; she's trying to break into Broadway. There's only a couple of girls that turn tricks on the side, and they can't do it at the club. Strictly _verboten._ It's how they keep the vice squad away."

Miranda found this hard to believe and it must have showed in her face because Andrea snorted. "You know Miranda, one thing I _never_ thought you were was a hypocrite."

"I'm not."

"The hell! You look like you opened your handbag and found three-day-old dogshit. I'm just gonna say one thing: Dorian Steele."

Miranda winced, taking the point. Dorian Steele was a new designer who specialized in leather. Over Irv's objections, Nigel and Miranda had chosen to feature his designs in a layout that smacked heavily of S and M. It was the most provocative set of photos that had ever appeared in _Runway._ The fashion press had gone crazy with adulation over models dressed in barely more than Andrea had worn onstage.

"Fashion makes more money from sex than a strip club ever will. Makes you wonder who the _real _whores are." Andrea murmured.

"Are you still writing at all?"

"Yup" Andrea took a bite of bread and closed her eyes. There was _nothing_ like good garlic bread. "You have plenty of enemies. I figure one of them will crack sooner or later."

Miranda Priestly was famous for being unpredictable. Everyone knew that. The look of shock on her ex-assistant's lovely face made her feel infinitely better as she played her ace: "Write for me, Andrea. Write for _Runway_ and I'll lift the ban."


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Hi everyone! Just a short chapter before I go on vacation. I'm still not sure how long this will be. Andy is proving more pig-headed than I expected her to be! :-D Thanks so much for the reviews! Keep em' coming!—Maumauka**_

**Pole Dancing With Integrity, Chapter 3**

"You're kidding."

"I assure you, I'm not."

"What's the catch? And don't tell me there isn't one". Despite the girl's sharp words, she was leaning forward, her dark eyes fixed like a bayonet on Miranda's.

"The catch is exclusivity. _Runway_ gets first choice of anything you submit. That means you are going to have to write about fashion, something you have always been completely indifferent to." Miranda let her gaze flick scornfully over the younger woman's outfit: a plain white t-shirt and a pair of no-name jeans.

"Not always. I almost sold my soul for Jimmy Choos, remember?"

Miranda tilted her head, acknowledging the point. "It _was_ nice to know that your fine moral principles didn't render you completely immune to style. However, during your tenure with us, you made no secret of the fact that you thought fashion an occupation for the brainless and shallow. Therefore, the price of getting off the blacklist is to write about it. And write _well_, as I know you can."

Andrea leaned back and studied Miranda for several minutes without saying anything. Finally she said, "I don't think I believe you."

"About?"

"Any of it. You never cared that I could write while I was working for you."

"That's because I hired an _assistant,_ not a writer."

"Bullshit. You know what I think? I think you're actually experiencing _guilt_. Congratulations! It's nice to know you're not a robot."

Miranda shook her head. "I can see why you'd doubt me. But I assure you that I'm telling the truth. You did something that is unforgivable in any assistant, and I did what any other high-powered editor would have done in return. But contrary to what you may believe, I _have_ read your writing and I do know that you are intelligent, articulate, and gifted. Much too gifted to spend your life in a strip club."

Andrea opened her mouth but Miranda overrode her. "I almost _never_ give second chances Andrea. Take twenty-four hours to think it over and call me."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Andrea POV**_

Andy poured a cup of tea and sat down on the couch to think. She was not working that evening, so she had plenty of time, and Miranda had given her plenty to think about.

_I probably shouldn't have been so bitchy_, she thought. Miranda Priestley was not noted for forgiveness or compassion. Andy was pretty sure she had hit the nail right on the head when she had accused her ex-boss of guilt, and she didn't want that feeling to morph into another burst of anger. An angry Miranda was a dangerous Miranda and Andy didn't need dangerous.

She didn't know yet if she wanted to write for _Runway_, but she was wise enough to know that Miranda's offer was a jewel that she had been handed out of thin air. Despite her careless words, Andy had gotten so discouraged with her writing that was seriously considering enrolling at NYU law school.

_After all, how bad could it be? I was never _enslaved_ by fashion, like the Clackers, but I had the same interest in it as the average girl. And if it means that I can write for other magazines someday, then who cares? _Runway_ isn't just a catalogue; they had that interview with Christian Thompson when he made the _Times_' bestseller list, and there was that feature about the old architecture in Tuscany. In fact, if I'm writing for _Runway_, I shouldn't have to deal with Miranda at all. Charlotte Kinga is the features editor, or was when I was there. And from what I could see, Miranda never bothered to _read_ anything at all—she was totally focused on the pictures, the layouts._

Still, though, _Runway_ was a frenetic place. Everything moved at light speed, and Andy had no doubt that any piece she submitted would have to go through a hell of a lot of rewrites. And since _Miranda_ was the one making the offer, she probably had a specific subject in mind for Andy to cover. That meant whether she read the article personally or not, she would definitely add her input and Andy would need her very-hard-to-get approval.

Andy put down her cup and picked up her cell phone. She had planned to call Hannah this evening anyway. The phone rang a few times and then Hannah picked up. Right away, she said "You have _got_ to tell me what you were doing having lunch with Miranda Priestly."

"She wants me to write for _Runway_. She says she'll get me off the blacklist if I write for her and give _Runway_ first choice of any other articles I submit."

"Wow. Why the change of heart?"

Andy paused before answering. She couldn't tell Hannah that Miranda had been at the club. "I don't know. Maybe it's some twisted revenge plot." _Or maybe she just wants to buy my silence._

"Maybe. But if you really want to write in New York…"

"I know. I'm not sure what to do."

"Are you planning on leaving the club?"

"No, not yet." Andy closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. "She could make me write for her and then reject everything I submit. I wouldn't put it past her."

"Look, you were going to enroll at NYU in January, right? That gives you a few months to try it and see. I think you should at least try. You're _good_, Andy. I've read some of your stuff. And if it turns out she was just jerking you around, you still have a backup plan."

"Yeah. You're right."

"Of course I am."

Andy laughed. "Close your eyes and imagine me flipping you off."

Hannah laughed too. "Let me know how it goes, okay?"

"I will."

They chatted a while about inconsequential things, but eventually Andy told Hannah she had to go and hung up. It was late enough, now, for Miranda to be home. For some ungodly reason, Andy had not deleted any of her ex-boss's numbers from her phone when she left _Runway._ She took a deep breath, punched in the familiar sequence and waited.

Miranda, miracle of miracles, picked up almost immediately. "Yes, Ahn-dre-ah?"

"You knew it was me?"

"Of course. Are you calling for a reason or does it amuse you to waste my time?"

_Back to normal_, Andy thought glumly. "I've been thinking about your offer", she said.

"Well?"

"The answer is yes."

"Good. You will start by calling Charlotte in features. She'll tell you what we're doing. That's all."

Miranda hung up. Andy sat for a long time, holding the phone next to her ear and praying she wasn't making a giant mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlotte Kinga had been at Runway for over ten years. In that time, she liked to think that she had gotten to know Miranda Priestley pretty well-at least, the Miranda who knew everything and everyone there was to know in fashion. Miranda had chosen Charlotte for Features because she knew Charlotte could spot a good writer at fifty paces, and she could maintain an exquisite balance between literary and commercial. Almost as demanding as Miranda herself, Charlotte never accepted a piece that she didn't feel was exactly right, or less than expertly written. A sign in her office read:

**PLEASE LEARN THE DIFFERENCE!**

Lose = verb. To suffer deprivation of : I would hate to _lose_ my wallet.

Loose = adjective, verb and obsoloete noun. (1.) Not rigidly fastened or securely attached: The bolt on the fence was _loose. (_2.) To release: I _loose_ my hair when I get home. (3.) Freedom from restraint: Mr. Smith was given a _loose_ by the colonial governor.

Peaked = adjective and verb . (1.) Pointy: The house had a peaked roof. (2.) To rise to a high point: The stock marked _peaked_ at 5132

Peeked = verb. To look furtively: Hoping to see Santa Claus, Billy _peeked_ into the living room.

Piqued = verb. To excite or arouse. The article _piqued_ my interest.

There = adverb. In or at a place. The water fountain is over _there_.

Their = possessive determinator. Belonging to more than one person. Bob and Doris love _their_ new car.

They're = contraction "They are":_ They're_ all outside.

**MIX THESE UP AND YOU DESERVE A SEVERE BEATING.**

So when the confidential memo arrived, Charlotte had the novel feeling of being completely shocked. Her expertly-plucked eyebrows flew up when she saw the same of the writer Miranda was ordering her to work with.

She knew about Andrea Sachs, of course. Her name was infamous at _Runway_; to mention it above a faint whisper was to risk a career beheading. Other assistants had flowed in and out of Miranda's employ like water, but only Andrea Sachs had abandoned her at Fashion Week, and Miranda had been nearly impossible to deal with for months after the girl's departure. For the first time in the magazine's history, Miranda lost her legendary cool. She was so irritable and snappy that only Nigel Kipling could be around her for any length of time. Shad called Charlotte in no less than five times before the spring issue ran, always with some sneering remark about Charlotte's lack of originality. It had not taken Charlotte long to figure out that what was angering Miranda wasn't the pieces that she had marked for the magazine, it was that everybody at _Runway_ was suddenly the wrong person.

Now, she faced her long-time boss and colleague across the narrow black desk and said one word: "Why?"

Miranda shrugged indifferently. "Irv wanted younger. Irv wanted edgier. I gave him that, and now he doesn't seem to understand exactly what he asked for. Andrea can convey it in no uncertain terms. Give her the personal with Steele."

"Can she write?" Charlotte did not attempt to hide the doubt in her voice.

Miranda raised an eyebrow without replying. Charlotte recognized the look and leaned forward. "Just tell me you're going to settle down once she's back here."

"First of all, Charlotte, I do not have to explain myself to you. Second, when have you ever known me to send you a mediocre writer?"

Charlotte resisted the urge to flinch. She knew that as much as Miranda hated insubordination, she hated wimps even more. "If it were anything but the Steele interview, you wouldn't hear a peep out of me. But the whole June issue is going to center around it, Irv will read every word and if your girl can't get the job done-"

"-And it's YOUR job to see to it that the job gets done. That's all, Charlotte."

Dismissed, Charlotte retired to her office to make the call

**Andy-POV**

"Andrea? Welcome. Follow me, please."

Andy stood and followed the Features editor. Charlotte Kinga was a tall strawberry blonde with large blue eyes and a dusting of freckles on her nose, which should have given her features a girlish quality, but her expression was too reserved and watchful for youth. When they reached her office, she gestured Andy into a chair in front of her desk. "Miranda wants you to interview Dorian Steele" she said.

Andy felt her mouth drop open and closed it hastily. "Okay. Do I schedule it myself or...?"

"No. It's already set for the 29th. All you have to do is go and ask the right questions. Have you ever interviewed anyone before?"

"I did in college."

"And how long ago was that?"

"Almost two years."

Charlotte let out a long breath. "Miranda thinks very highly of your writing. It's _your _job to maintain that good opinion. Is that clear?"

Andy nodded. "Uh-huh."

"Do you have any samples of your work with you?"

Andy handed over her portfolio of college pieces. Charlotte flipped through it and gave a brief nod. "I will read these tonight. Right now we're going to go over what kind of interview Miranda wants from Dorian. I trust you know what kind of work he does?"

"Yeah. He's a new designer who specializes in leather, particularly boots. His work was featured in last month's issue, as well as in _Vogue_, _Elle_ and _Women's Wear Daily_."

"If you know all that, then you know that he's raised plenty of eyebrows. Fortunately, he's given us permission to interview him first. We want to cover the basics: his vision as a designer, what inspires him, some personal background. That shouldn't be too hard. The tricky part will be getting him to give you straight answers. He tends to ramble and his attention span is all of five seconds long. Do NOT include anything about his love life, no matter how much he insists on talking about it. _Runway _isn't interested in that. We want his artistic vision, his aesthetics, and just enough personal info to make him real to our readers, okay?"

"Okay."

"If something happens and you decide you don't want this assignment, _please _call me as soon as possible." Charlotte looked directly into Andy's eyes and Andy could hear the end of her thought: _Don't just run out like you ran out on Miranda in Paris._

"When's the deadline?" Andy asked.

"May 15th. You can submit the article via email attachment. Here…" Charlotte opened a drawer in her desk and took out a black folder. "In here is the username and password for _Runway's_ Features network, our guidelines, and your contract. Please read everything carefully and have it back to me, personally, by tomorrow. From your hand to mine, understand?"

Andy nodded again, trying to tamp down her annoyance. Charlotte seemed to think she was planning to disappear immediately. "No worries. What time are you here?"

"Five. But you don't have to be here that early. Nine or ten will do. That's all."

Andy couldn't help rolling her eyes as she walked out the door. Miranda's stamp truly was everywhere.

Charlotte watched her go, trying to ignore the icy lump of dread in her stomach. She had four backups for the Steele interview piece in case this didn't work out, but she didn't want to even think about what Miranda's reaction would be. She had called Charlotte at home five times in the space of two hours with last-minute instructions about how to handle Andrea's contract. No matter how many times Charlotte tried to gently suggest that Miranda discuss the finer points with_ Runway's _legal department, the editor insisted that she, Charlotte, be on top of every nuance. Miranda had _never_ behaved that way about a mere writer before. This girl plainly meant a lot to her. And as far as Charlotte could tell, Andrea was completely oblivious.

It did not bode well.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This is a long one. Much longer than I had first planned. I hope you enjoy it. The phrase "the opposite of inspiration is expiration comes from the novel **_**Speak**_**, by Laurie Halse Anderson.**

**Andy—POV**

"Yes, darling?" a soft male voice with a British accent drawled out of the intercom. The receptionist, a skinny woman with geometric purple hair wearing a slashed black leather dress gave Andy and Marc, the photographer a doubtful look. "There's a girl here…she says she's from _Runway_?"

"Oh yes. Today _is_ the 29th, isn't it? Send her up, Zinnia."

The intercom clicked off. Zinnia rose and led Andy to a creaky elevator. Once they were inside, an awkward quiet descended. It wasn't like riding with Miranda, where silence was an enforced rule. Zinnia shuffled her feet and gazed up at the ceiling, down at the floor, at the panel of buttons; anywhere but at Andy. Thinking she might be shy, Andy ventured, "So, how long have you worked here?"

"Two years" Zinnia cleared her throat.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes."

"I like your boots." They were royal blue, a shade so deep that it verged on purple. Andy planned to ask her if Dorian made them and when they might be available for sale, but Zinnia only rolled her eyes. "You needn't bother to suck up to me. If you have any questions, ask Dorian. "

Andy felt her cheeks flame at the rebuff and glanced at Marc. He jerked his head in Zinnia's direction and mouthed, _bitch._ It made Andy feel a little better.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the doors squealed open. Zinnia led the way into a bright workroom where several young men and women were sewing, cutting, and measuring pieces of red satin. In the center of the room a thin, shirtless man with a black Mohawk was circling a dressmaker's dummy swathed in more of the pink satin. Or maybe "swathed" was the wrong word: the material had been cut into thin ribbons that appeared to be held together by tiny rhinestone buckles.

"Dore" Zinnia spoke gently, going over and laying a spidery, black-nailed hand on his back. The man looked up; his eyes were as blue as Zinnia's boots. "Ah yes. Thank you, Zinny."

Zinnia walked back to the elevator without another word. Dorian Steele smiled and beckoned Andy closer. "So you're _Andrea Sachs_."

"Yes, I am". Andy had a bad feeling about this. The designer said her name as if he knew who she was.

"Welcome, blessed child!" Dorian placed his hands lightly on Andy's shoulders and drew her forward to kiss her cheek. Andy returned the greeting cautiously. Of all the reactions she had expected, this was not one of them. "Um. Thanks. So, where would you like to do the interview? We also need to get a few photos."

"Right here!" Dorian spun around on one foot, his arms outstretched. "This is the very _womb_ of my creation! And it faces West! That makes it a West Womb!" he went off into a gale of laughter as Marc and Andy looked at each other.

"Okay. How did you get started designing?" Andrea took out a small mini-corder and turned it on. She had discovered in her college days that a recorder allowed interviews to progress smoothly and that she often caught subtle nuances of a subject's personality once she played the tape back.

"No."

"No?"

"No dear one, this is NOT how we begin. I already know that Miranda is being questioned by the powers that be. She wants to know _why_, or rather, Elias-Clarke wants to know why, so let's begin with my religion."

"Okaaay", Andy said guardedly. She was beginning to have grave doubts about this assignment. Dorian Steele might be brilliant, but he definitely wasn't all there. "What is your religion?"

"I am a servant of Aphrodite. Beauty and love in all its forms. If pain is pleasure, and given as a gift from one person to another, then pain is love, do you see?"

"Is he _high?_" Marc mumbled under his breath. "It certainly gives you something to think about!" Andy said loudly, praying Dorian hadn't overheard him. "And you express this through your designs?"

"Of course. Look…" Dorian skipped over to a nearby table and pulled out the April issue of _Runway_. There on the page was the layout the fashion press had gone wild over. Models barely clad in white suede dresses were arranged in a lovely garden, and each and every one of them was in a bondage pose, although no bondage equipment was visible. One stood against a marble column with her wrists crossed over her head, looking over her shoulder at another girl who wore a white mask. Another model sat in a chair with a tiny smile on her lips as a blonde girl playfully covered her eyes from behind. All of the girls' outfits bore one tiny scarlet jewel somewhere: near the neck, at the hip, in the small of the back.

"This is the Eden of love" Dorian said softly, his eyes shining. "In this world, they serve desire but there is innocence too. That's why I chose white leather. There must be softness, but control as well. These blooms are only just opening. They are not ready to go outside the garden yet, but the red says they will in time. The red is the future."

Andy looked at the picture and understood. As crazy as Dorian seemed, he was right about these designs. Even though the dresses were skimpy they _did_ give off an air of innocence. Maybe it was because the skimpiness came from the fact that the material was mostly open: the leather had been cut so that the bare skin of the models was covered by what almost resembled Persian fretwork, so delicate that if Andy hadn't known better, she would have thought she was looking at some new kind of lace. No wonder Miranda had pounced on this designer! And no wonder Irv was fit to be tied…Irv was strictly commercial and this was _art._

"It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?" Dorian trailed a fingertip reverently over the photo. "Goddess bless Miranda Priestley! _She _understands. And she sent you! That's a _very_ good sign."

"I'm glad you think so. Have you always been interested in Greek mythology?"

"Greek. Egyptian. Indian" Dorian smiled. "I've always loved the elder days. But when I say that I serve Aphrodite, it doesn't just mean that. I believe that love is a force. Pleasure is a force. Beauty is a force. I am one of the creators of that force. I send beauty into the world. Every time someone sees something beautiful—a painting, a waterfall, a house, a girl, they come away feeling touched with grace. That is what I seek to create: that touch of grace."

Andy studied the red material on the dressmaker's dummy. The rhinestone buckles glistened like tiny stars, while the red was deep and soft. "Can I ask about that one?"

"Ask anything you like, Miranda's Treasure. I may not answer all of your questions, but you may ask. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?"

"Coffee would be nice" Andy avoided the question uppermost in her mind by sheer force of will. "How will these new designs of yours express your vision?"

"Cream? I have five kinds. I love it. I get the darkest coffee I can find, then overlay it with cream. Spices too, to enhance the experience. Cinnamon. Chili."

"Cream sounds good" Andy tried to keep from groaning in frustration. Charlotte hadn't been kidding about this guy. He was an artist, but Andy was clearly going to have to use some of her best writing skills to get any sort of narrative structure for the article. Talking to Dorian Steele was like talking to a river. Things flowed past and through him, rarely stopping long enough to take on concrete form, every now and then throwing off tantalizing sparkles of light.

"The new designs are the First Blush. Blush from the palest shell pink, to that over there." Dorian nodded at the dummy. It will take a while. I don't do my designs in any sort of chronological order." He poured dark, rich-smelling coffee into three cups from a small coffeepot and added cream to two. He raised his eyebrows at Marc, who shook his head. "Black."

"I thought so" Dorian murmured. "You like to stay clear, keep your gaze sharp, man of the eagle-blue eyes."

"Kind if helps when you're a photographer. And by the way, eagles aren't blue."

Dorian laughed and saluted them with his cup. The coffee was delicious. It was hazelnut flavored with a just a touch of something else, something that was warm on Andy's tongue. After a minute or two, she identified it as ginger.

"I was never trained", the designer said suddenly.

"To do what? Make coffee?"

Dorian waved a hand dismissively. "As a designer. I never went to any sort of a school for it. I could never bear school when I was young. All I had was needles and scissors and visions. My mother sewed all our clothes and she taught my sister. Zinnia taught me."

"Zinnia is your sister?"

"Oh yes. I could never do without Zinnia."

"She seems…" Andy paused, remembering the woman's rudeness. "…protective."

"She is. Oh yes, she is. But it's all right. I'm all she has in the world. She was seventeen when our mother died and she had to go to work. She looked after me all while we were growing up. Mum was always at the factory. Zinnia would cook and sew, and I would help. I made her a hat once. For church. It had paper lilacs on it. She wore it until it fell apart. I was so happy. We lived in an ugly, ugly place. That hat was my first effort at making beauty."

"You're from England?" Dorian nodded. "What part?"

"Birmingham. Nothing but smoke and noise and grayness."

"So it was kind of a reverse inspiration? The place was so ugly you wanted to create beauty?"

"A reverse inspiration, yes. The opposite of inspiration is _ex_piration. Yes, Birmingham was an expiration."

"When did you come to America?"

"Four years ago. We started off with a tiny store. One of Zinnia's friends owns it. Mostly vintage, but she likes my things. Pretty soon, she put me on the store website. I still make accessories for her."

"That's good"

"Would you like to be in one of my pictures?" Dorian asked suddenly. Andy spluttered into her coffee cup for a moment. "Uh, that's very nice of you but I'm not a model."

"No. Your eyes are too wide and joyful. You have kissing lips; most models have lips like razors and their eyes are cold. You're like Audrey Hepburn."

"Thanks" Andy said slowly. She studied Dorian's face to see if he was serious. It looked like it; his blue eyes gazed innocently back at hers.

"Here" the designer got up and trotted over to a rolling rack. He pulled out a white sheath with a delicate black border around the neckline and handed it to Andy. Put this on. You're a size four, right?"

"Right. How did you know?"

"I know. Try the dress on. There's a little alcove over there" he pointed to a curtained recess behind one of the work tables. Andy looked at Marc who shrugged.

Taking the dress from Dorian's outstretched hand; Andy made her way into the alcove. It was nothing more than a box made out of more racks with curtains on them. Inside was an ornate full-length mirror. She changed carefully, folding her slacks and top so they wouldn't wrinkle and being extra-gentle with the dress zipper. The dress was another suede number. Dorian must have a fetish for the stuff. When she looked in the mirror, Andy was surprised to see that it fit her perfectly, hugging her curves in just the right way before falling to just over her knees. It was sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline, but any claim it had to demureness ended below Andy's armpits and around her middle. Long slits in the front and back were filled with more pierced leather, just like the model's dresses in _Runway._ The piercing was more subtle, and the leather had even been dyed black at the top to match the banding, but Hepburn had _definitely _never worn anything like this. _I can't even wear underwear with this thing_, she thought. Her cotton panties were clearly visible through the piercing.

"Sweet child, come out so I can see you!" Andy felt like sinking into the floor. Muttering a silent prayer that she could somehow buy Marc's silence, she stepped out of her undies and pulled the curtains open.

Dorian clapped his hands when she came out. "Oooh, that's so lovely! Please do reconsider!"

"I think Audrey Hepburn is stretching it a bit" Andy said ruefully.

"Oh no! Not at all. We just need to fix your hair. Come here."

Andy did as she was told while Marc looked pointedly at his watch. Dorian sat her down and pulled a brush from his back pocket and began pulling it through her hair. "Sheila!"

"Yeah?" asked one of the sewing girls, who was watching with an amused smile.

"Pins, please."

Sheila came over with a handful of bobby pins and Dorian expertly fastened Andy's hair into a twist. "I can't wait for mine to grow back out" he confided. "It was almost down to my waist! Then I broke up with my lover and cut it all off in a fit of heartbreak. The only way to salvage it was to shave my head, so I did. And do you know, my skin felt so smooth and velvety I decided I just _had _to do some work with suede."

Sheila smiled at Andy's worried expression. "Don't worry, he's harmless. He does this to us all the time."

"And _where_ is your blue streak, Sheila? I gave it to you for a reason" Dorian shook the brush at her. "There!" he said to Andy. "Do you have lipstick? If you do, put some on and go look at yourself!"

Andy didn't have lipstick, but she dug some gloss out of her purse and rubbed it on her lips before returning to the alcove. When she looked in the mirror, she was amazed to see that she _did_ look sort of like Hepburn, minus the gloves, diamonds, and long cigarette holder. Dorian had left a few tendrils of hair to curl by her ears. Holly Golightly gone punk. She had to admit that she liked it.

"Well?" said Dorian's voice outside the curtains, making her jump.

"It's amazing!"

"Of course it is. And you are the only one who should wear it, so I'm giving it to you. Now come back to us, your eagle-friend wants to take his photographs."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry it's taking so long! I'm in the middle of trying to move to a new apartment so the chappies may come slowly for a while. My apologies!—Maumuaka**

**Miranda-POV**

Miranda sat in her study with a steaming cup of coffee and a feeling of complete satisfaction. The Book was complete and no monumental mistakes had happened with the layouts. There was even a spark or two of originality. And she had saved the best part for last.

**Located in part of an old factory**, designer Dorian Steele's

workshop looks nothing like Wonderland, but the fall down the

rabbit hole begins inside the mind of fashion's newest creative genius.

Steele, who claims that beauty and love are his religion, raised more

than a few eyebrows with his provocative designs featured in the

April issue of _Runway_.

Her eyes skimmed quickly over the rest of the article. Every so often, the editor's lips would curve into a small smile. How right her instincts had been! She had known that Dorian would respond to Andrea's warmth and gentle demeanor. He had refused a personal for some time, even with the fashion press clamoring for it. And only Andrea would have the patience to coax Dorian down to earth and get him to give her straight answers. She presented his life and vision in a straightforward yet lyrical way and Marc had gotten some _wonderful_ photographs…

Miranda smirked. There were numerous shots of Dorian's studio and a very good one of him standing next to a table, but Miranda's favorite was one that would never see the light of day in _Runway_: one of a slim young woman with wide dark eyes, wearing a demure (demure for Dorian, anyway) white sheath with openwork running down the sides. The girl was standing next to Dorian as he bent over a group of sketches.

She must remember to give Marc a bonus this year. She hadn't asked for the photograph, but he knew what she liked.

Charlotte had been impressed too, only sentencing the girl to three re-writes before letting the piece go to the Book. A check was on its way to Andrea; Miranda hoped it would be enough to encourage her to quit dancing in that awful club.

Miranda had not been back there, of course. As for Stephen, who knew? He came and went as he pleased, leaving empty Scotch bottles behind. The girls had bluntly asked her if there was going to be another divorce. She gathered them into her arms and sighed, "I don't know, loves. I hope not."

"I don't care if you _do_ get divorced", growled Caroline. "He talks to you like you're stupid."

"And he's always drunk", Cassidy added.

And what could she say to that? It was all true. Miranda had just hugged the girls tightly and reassured them that whatever happened, she would always be there.

The editor stretched, groaning as her back popped. With luck, Andrea's writing would lead to other opportunities. At the very least, writing for _Runway_ meant she was back in Miranda's world, and Miranda intended to see to it that Andrea stayed in that world for a long time. Flipping open her cell, Miranda called Charlotte. "It looks good. Thank you."

There was a startled pause at the other end of the line. Miranda was not known for thanking her employees. "You're welcome, Miranda" Charlotte said at last. "She can write; no doubt about that. And she got it in three days before deadline, which is impressive, given how long our writers usually take."

"Mm, yes. What time did she come in?"

"About 4:30 in the afternoon. She was only in for a minute. She said she had to go to her other job."

Miranda felt her grip tighten on the small phone. She supposed it was too much to expect the girl to quit dancing right away. She thanked Charlotte and hung up, pondering her next move. There was no way Andrea could be allowed to _stay_ at a strip club—_Runway_ was not _Cosmopolitan;_ it would look bad! But as long as she was a free-lancer, there was little Miranda could do. Unless…

Miranda licked her lips as an idea formed in her mind. It was dangerous; if she got caught the press (and Irv) would have a field day. But at least it was a chance to keep an eye on the girl, make sure nothing happened to her in a sleazy dive like that.

She told herself it wasn't so she could see Andrea dance again.

**Andy—POV**

"ANDEEEE!" squealed a chorus of voices when Andy stepped into the dressing room at the club. Crimson, Mystic, and Delilah all ran up to throw their arms around her. "We saw your article!" "Dorian is so CUTE!" "I can't wait until his new stuff comes out! The minute I see that red dress, it's mine!"

_Oh, great! Why in the hell didn't I use a pen name?_ Andy tried to smile as she returned the hugs. She hadn't thought anyone from Satin even read_ Runway, _much less that they would notice her name attached to any of the articles!A strip club, she had discovered, was sort of like high school on steroids. At the top were the girls who earned the most money. They tended to be blonde and they usually spoke only to each other. Then there was Everyone Else: the brunettes, the redheads, and any ethnicity other than white. While cross-friendships between the two groups were not unknown, the Blondes tended to devote most of their time to crushing anyone they thought was competition.

"Watch your hair and makeup stuff" Delilah muttered in her ear.

"I will" Andy whispered back. She groaned inwardly as Crimson begged her to sign her copy of _Runway_. "Yer gonna be famous, I just know it!" she crowed in her broad Texas accent. "I wanna be able to tell people I knew you when!"

"Does _Runway_ even know you work here?" inquired one of the Blondes. Her tone was neutral, but Andy had no trouble sensing the hostility underneath. "I didn't tell them. I'm just freelancing, so it shouldn't make any difference if they find out." Andy shrugged, keeping her face carefully blank. "After all, it's not like I'm a _celebrity_ or something."

The other girl continued to gaze at her as she slowly brushed out her yellow, extended mane. "I'm doing _1,2,3_ tonight. I need a third girl. Want to?"

Andy thought for a moment. The Blondes liked to keep their friends close and their enemies closer. Being unfriendly wouldn't be wise. On the other hand, she would have to be very careful what she said. "Okay", she said. "Who else?"

"Jade."

Jade was the only exception to the Blonde rule that Andy had noted so far. She was a limber, double-jointed Asian girl who could curl herself into fantastic shapes. The men loved it and she always banked. The Blondes hated her, but whenever they needed an extra girl for a song like _1,2,3_ Jade was always asked first.

"Okay" Andy said again. The Blonde turned back to her makeup mirror. Crimson, Mystic, and Delilah had already drifted off and were in the process of changing into their stage wear. Delilah caught Andy's eye and mouthed, _Be careful._ Andy nodded.

**Miranda—POV**

_1, 2, 3  
>Not only you and me<br>Got one eighty degrees  
>And I'm caught in between<em>

Miranda made a face as she sipped her drink. She really didn't like hard liquor, but she hated beer and she didn't expect a place like this to have good wine. She watched from behind her drugstore dark glasses as three girls tumbled onto the stage at once: a busty, haughty-looking blonde, an Asian beauty, and Andrea.__

_Babe, pick a night  
>To come out and play<br>If it's alright  
>What do you say?<em>

_Merrier the more  
>Triple fun that way<br>Twister on the floor  
>What do you say?<em>

She'd say she was crazy, that's what. It was her third week running, coming to this place disguised in black and sunglasses, a new black bobbed wig on her head. She looked like a dominatrix and ironically, that was what made her fit in. Nobody looked at her; the doorman took her money without a glance. A few of the dancers circulating around the floor had and giggled and offered their services, but that was all.

The girls onstage were all over each other. The blonde one appeared to be the leader. She pulled Andrea against her super-inflated chest while the Asian embraced her from behind, her sinuous pelvic movements leaving no doubt about what she was miming. Andrea tilted her head back, closing her eyes, her lips parted in fake ecstasy as the blonde dancer kissed a trail down her exposed throat. In that moment, Miranda could have cheerfully committed murder, especially when the blonde's hands drifted down to Andrea's sinfully gorgeous bottom

_Are you in?_

_Living in sin is the new thing, yeah._

_Are you in?_

_I am counting_

_1, 2, 3  
>Not only you and me<br>Got one eighty degrees  
>And I'm caught in between<em>

The reason for the charade became obvious when one looked at the crowd of men around the stage. Green bills were flying through the air like snowflakes. When the song faded out, the three women scrambled to scoop up the money. Andrea threw a flirty wink over her shoulder and was rewarded with more cash.

Andrea usually did two or three stage sets, and hustled for lap dances between whiles. Miranda watched, wrenched by a horrible mixture of envy and desire. She was ninety percent certain that Andrea didn't particularly enjoy sitting on the laps of all these men, but she certainly knew how to fake it. And Miranda _knew _how the men felt, how it felt to have a gorgeous woman touch you, caress you and be unable to touch back.

"Hey stranger."

Miranda jumped, startled. There was Andrea looking down at her with an eyebrow raised, a smirk curling her full red lips. She had apparently shot up through the floor when Miranda wasn't looking. "Good to see you again."


	8. Chapter 8

Miranda froze. For a moment the wheels of her mind spun fruitlessly as she tried to think of something to say. Still smirking, Andrea leaned close. "You look like you could use a little _Integrity._" In a whisper, she added, "I suppose it would be pointless to ask what the hell you're doing here?"

"Yes, it would." Miranda croaked, feeling her face burn and praying the light in the club was dim enough to hide it.

"Are you still wondering how a nice girl like me ended up in a place like this?" Without ceremony, Andrea straddled the editor's lap and began the slow, sinuous movements that Miranda remembered only too well. "Or do you just like my dancing?"

"I'm making sure you don't get yourself into serious trouble!" Miranda hissed as Andrea leaned back against her shoulder and let her eyes flutter closed. "How thoughtful of you", she murmured. "I really had no idea you were so full of shit...ah-ah! Can't touch me, remember?"

Miranda lowered her hands, which had been dangerously close to grabbing the girl and shaking her until her teeth rattled. "What you are doing is dangerous and you know it."

"Of course I know it" Andrea turned and pressed her bare breasts uncomfortably close to Miranda's nose. "That's why one of the bouncers walks me to my car when my shift is finished. Or are you worried about what's going to happen when someone finds out that one of your writers is a stripper? That would be more in character for you."

Miranda cursed and Andrea laughed. "That's it, isn't it? And yet here you are in person. Curious indeed. Oh, and by the way, if you want to finish this conversation, you have to pay. Lap dances are twenty dollars each."

Miranda dug her wallet out of her coat pocket and put three twenties on the table. "The whole idea of you writing for us was to get you _out_ of here!" she growled as soon as the music began to blare again and another girl came onstage.

"And why would you want to do that?"

"Because you are better than this!"

"I'm here by choice. Nobody's holding a gun to my head. And even if I wanted to quit, I couldn't. My savings are almost nil and my credit cards are getting uncomfortably overloaded. If you really want to give me money, I could take you to the VIP lounge...that's two hundred."

"Are you insane?!"

"No, I'm on the clock."

Miranda thought fast. "Is this VIP place private?"

"As private as it gets here. It's divided into four rooms, but each room is private and the waitresses are paid to mind their own business."

"All right. Maybe _I'm _insane, but all right."

Andrea grinned and grabbed the money from the table as she slid off Miranda's lap. Taking the editor's hand, Andrea led Miranda through a maze of crowded tables towards an archway on the left side of the club. Miranda had seen the girls going in and out of it with their...clients? Patrons? Benificiaries? Miranda shook her head, hard. She had to keep it together or she would end up throwing the girl over her shoulder and kidnapping her.

The VIP lounge was dark and smelled like new car. Andrea walked without stopping to a blue satin curtain. "In here."

The room was plain except for a white couch. _At least it's clean_, Miranda thought with a little grimace. "What do I do?"

"Nothing. I do all the work. Just sit down. Or lie down, if you'd rather. And take your coat off."

Awkwardly, Miranda removed her coat and perched on the couch. Andrea giggled. "You might want to uncross your legs."

Miranda did so, fighting the impulse to say something so withering the too-damn-lovely brunette in front of her would sink into the floor and vanish. Andrea knelt before her, her smile turning sensual as she gently pushed Miranda's knees apart. "Open for for me, baby. That's it."

Miranda heard herself choke. Andrea laid her head on the editor's knee, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "God, it's so cute how nervous you are! Look, if it helps you relax, the rules are the same as they are out there, more or less"

"As in?"

"You don't touch me. In theory."

"In theory. Is it differen't in practice?"

"Depends on the situation." Gently, Andrea placed her hands on Miranda's shoulders and pushed her back into the couch cushions. "I can do more of what I was doing out there, or if you lie down, I can bed dance. Either way, you're supposed to keep your hands to yourself but shit happens. Sometimes a touch, sometimes a kiss...like the first night you were here. Remember?"

Miranda nodded.

"Most girls don't mind a few extras here and there, as long as it doesn't go too far. It means they get tipped more." Andrea settled herself on her knees again, and began to gently trail her dark red nails up and down Miranda's thighs. The editor shuddered and bowed her head as Andrea began to move. Miranda thought that private or not, conversation was out of the question. She gripped the edge of the couch-which was soft and puffy and not at all easy to grip-and tried to keep her brain from imploding.

Andrea chuckled and picked up Miranda's legs, moving them onto the couch. Miranda stared at her through her shades and realized helplessly that she had already completely lost control. Her entire body was soft and loose and on fire at the core. If Andrea had wanted to cut her flesh with a rusty razor she wouldn't have been able to do a thing to save herself. Andrea climbed on top of her and bent down to whisper in her ear. "It seems you came for my dancing after all."

_I could come _from_ your dancing. _ Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that she hadn't just said those words out loud. In the next few moments, she discovered that a bed dance was like a full-body lap dance. Andrea moved over her in a silken wave, brushing her delectable body against the editor's just enough so the other woman could feel the warmth of her skin. She smelled like flowers and vanilla and Miranda felt her hips arch. Andrea threw her head back, her dark hair cascading almost to her waist. "Jesus God!" she breathed. "You are so hot!"

"Am I supposed to pay you for that observation?"

Andrea exploded in laughter. "It _is _customary to tip extra for a bed dance, but..." the editor gasped as the Andrea's smile turned evil and the girl's knee suddenly pressed hard against her dripping center. "Maybe we can work out a trade. I won't charge you more than the basic rate if you agree to leave quietly and don't come back. The girls have been asking me who my lady fan is. Your cover is going to be blown if you keep showing up here."

Miranda tried to glare, but it didn't quite work because her breathing had developed a definite hitch. Andrea was still grinding away, her knee wedged firmly between the editor's thighs, and Miranda found she could not stop her body from answering every move. "How about I send you a text directly when I get home? That way you won't have to worry." Andrea's voice was still soft, little more than a whisper. She sighed and abruptly stopped the dance. "Time's up, unless you want to shell out another two hundred bucks."

"N-no. I think I'll take your advice" Miranda took a deep breath and tried to sit up. She found that she couldn't.

"Just lie still" Andrea said in a gentler tone. "One of the waitresses will be by in a minute. You're supposed to buy me a drink. If you do, we can stay here a little longer."

She seated herself on the edge of the couch and sure enough, the blue curtains parted and a smiling girl with curly black hair stuck her head in. "Can I get you guys anything?"

"Gin and tonic with lemon and an apple martini" Andrea said with a smile. "Thanks."

"No problem" the waitress vanished, and Miranda struggled to regain control of herself. When the drinks arrived she had managed, with Andrea's help, to sit up, straighten her wig, and look relatively composed. "You remember my drink preferences?"

"Of course. Good cabernet or merlot when you can get it; gin and tonic when you can't, and never beer."

Miranda looked down into her glass. How she had missed this! Andrea's remarkable gifts of memory and anticipation, and her awareness of Miranda's every need! It occured to the editor that in some ways, her ex-assistant knew her better than any of her husbands ever had. Certainly better than Stephen.

"Miranda? Hey..." Andrea waved something white under ner nose. Miranda stared dumbly at it until she realized it was a handful of tissues and that her cheeks were wet. She took them and carefully blotted her face. "Goddamn it."

"It's okay. You can cry if you need to. Bed dances can be pretty intense things."

But Miranda was already on her feet, her drink forgotten. She tossed a wad of cash at Andrea and fled.


End file.
